


Meet-Cute

by anactoriatalksback



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Chapter 2 tags in endnotes for chapter 2, Choose Your Own Ending, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Stop reading at Chapter One for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: Okay, so the leggy posh boy pulled Francis out of the river. Is he expecting Francis to be nice to him?A near-drowning, a meet-cute, and a choose-your-own-ending story.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 30
Kudos: 43
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fill for the 'Meet Cute' square of my Terror Bingo card.

‘Will you go, then?’ says Tom Blanky.

Francis Crozier sighs and looks down at his glass. ‘I don’t even know if she wants me there.’

‘If she didn’t,’ says Blanky, ‘she should’ve thought of that before she invited you. Do you want to go?’

‘Of course I don’t want to go,’ says Francis, ‘it’s my ex-girlfriend’s wedding. If I had to make a list of things I’d rather avoid - ’

‘You can avoid this one,’ says Blanky.

Francis sighs again. ‘It feels like I’m running.’

‘Call it a tactical retreat,’ says Blanky. ‘Nobody’d blame you for not showing.’

Francis is silent and Blanky grins. ‘But there’s a cross waiting for Francis Crozier to climb up on it.’

Francis grins. ‘And who am I to disappoint, eh?’

‘Who indeed,’ says Blanky.

The bartender appears and reverently sets down a glass of whisky before them. ‘Bowmore, sir,’ he says.

‘I didn’t order that,’ says Blanky, raising his pint.

‘And I definitely didn’t,’ says Francis, gesturing pointedly to his lemonade. ‘My favourite, though, that used to be.’

‘You’d have drunk paint-thinner back then,’ says Blanky cheerfully. ‘Anyway, that’s not ours, mate.’

‘Oh,’ says the bartender, looking a little deflated. ‘There must be some mistake, then - ’

‘There would be,’ says Blanky, pulling the glass towards him, ‘letting that go to waste.’ He shoos the bartender away and lifts the glass to his lips.

‘Nice drop,’ he says when he’s finished. ‘Right, I’m off to lay a cable, me. The gents’ here’s made of marble, did you know?’

‘Go christen it, then,’ say Francis, waving him off.

* * *

Francis is walking on the waterfront, pier head in his sightline. He’s ducking and weaving between perspiring runners and cyclists and wishing he could hate them as wholeheartedly as they deserve. He hasn’t responded to Sophia’s invitation yet, but in his defence, he also doesn’t know what he’ll give her for a wedding gift. He’d found a first-edition history of female explorers at Reid’s, but just as he was reaching for it a long pale hand had snatched it off the shelf, and Francis knew Jim Reid, hunched over his fireplace, was not the man to ask if there was another copy.

There’s a gap in the railings and he pauses to squint at the orange mesh and hazard sign. So much for being a World Heritage Site, Jesus. He bends forward to read the sign. Possibly too far, because a runner careens into him and shoulders him violently enough that he tumbles over the mesh and into the water.

‘Well,’ he finds himself thinking, as the Mersey rises to greet him like a great wet fist, ‘that sorts out going to Sophy’s wedding, anyway.’

Sluggishly, as water floods into his nose and mouth and he’s dragged further down, he thinks: coat. Off. It’s weighing you down. Arms. Legs. Up for the surface. Coat first, though.

There’s the sound of another splash and an arm – oddly diffracted, a thick tentacle of a thing – grasping for him. He’s yanked to the surface and the chill buffets him.

‘Steady,’ says a voice in his ear, a baritone public-schooly rumble that has Francis fighting instantly to get away.

‘Don’t struggle,’ says the voice, and Francis would level him a glare except there’s a long arm across his chest holding him firmly in place while Public School (his rescuer, Francis’s brain glumly supplies) swims over to the embankment. Hands are waiting to drag Francis out of the water. There are shock blankets, a wailing of sirens and a general screeching, and Francis is deposited at the University Hospital.

* * *

Tom Blanky arrives the next morning, once Francis is allowed visitors, to say ‘I know you didn’t want to go to that bloody wedding, but you didn’t need to get a neckful of the Mersey to say so.’

‘Oddly enough,’ says Francis, ‘I was thinking the same thing as I went in.’

‘Anyone catch the bugger who shoved you?’

‘Some fucking runner,’ says Francis. ‘Didn’t see him. Cunt.’

‘Cunts all of them,’ says Blanky.

There’s the sound of a throat being cleared and Francis looks up. There’s a man standing at the foot of the bed, holding a bouquet of flowers – lilies, Francis thinks, but he can’t be sure. He’s tall and thin, with a long face composed entirely of angles and straight lines, and long grooves on either side of a narrow mouth. He looks familiar, in a way that scratches at the inside of Francis’s mind.

‘You’re alive after all,’ says the man, and Francis recognises that deep self-satisfied rumble and scowls.

‘See for yourself,’ says Francis, and the man’s smile wavers.

‘Oh,’ he says, and coughs. ‘They said you could have visitors,’ and his eyes flicker to Blanky. ‘I can come back.’

Francis is about to say that he need not, but catches himself in time. It’s not the fucker’s fault that he pronounces the word ‘Oh’ with four syllables, or that he’s 90% leg, or that Francis has noticed that he’s 90% leg, or that he’s noticed that he’s noticed.

‘ _I’ll_ come back,’ says Blanky, and gets up. ‘Who’s your visitor, Francis?’

‘James Fitzjames,’ says the man, holding out his hand. ‘I – well, I helped out a little yesterday.’

The man – James – looks down and shuffles a little. He ruffles his perfect hair and peers up through his lashes in an actually half-decent approximation of Lady Di. He even produces a blush – pale pink marching across his cheekbones. He wouldn’t dream of taking credit for the rescue, oh heavens no, but if he were _asked_ …

Blanky, God love him, does not ask. He throws Francis a quick grin and says ‘All right, then.’

James looks a little deflated as Blanky gives him a quick, friendly nod on his way out, but he makes his way to the seat he vacated. Francis watches as he folds himself in gracefully, carefully hitching up the knees of his trousers. The watery afternoon light struggling through the window outlines him in a pale milky gleam. Francis feels mutinous, knows exactly why, and sets his teeth.

‘You’re looking well,’ says James, eyes on Francis with a proprietorial air that has the colour rising in his cheeks, ‘considering.’

Francis grunts. James continues ‘You know, when a person saves another one’s life, in some cultures the rescuer becomes responsible for the rescued.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘are you my minder now?’

‘Well,’ says James, shifting a little in his seat, ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’ He looks up at Francis again, tossing his hair off his forehead. ‘I’m not saying I _saved_ you, exactly.’

‘Are you not,’ says Francis, and waits.

‘No,’ says James, and waits.

Francis looks away and smothers a grin.

It doesn’t take long for James to break – Francis suspects he doesn’t do well with silence. ‘Well, anyway, I am glad you’re looking well.’ Another pause. ‘Better than yesterday.’

‘Trust me,’ says Francis, ‘I looked better than this yesterday before I was knocked into the river.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says James, ‘I mean – I wouldn’t know. I only know you from - ’ the pink is rising in his cheeks, ‘well. You know.’

‘The river,’ says Francis.

‘Yes,’ says James, ‘and – well – pulling you out.’

Francis says nothing. James’s eyes meet his, and he bites his lip. At length, he says ‘Do you live in Liverpool, then?’

Francis cocks an eyebrow. ‘I do, yes.’

‘I’m asking,’ says James, ‘because you seemed a little puzzled by that broken railing.’

‘And if I lived in the city I’d know some fecker of a runner would send me arse over teakettle into the drink?’

James flushes. ‘That’s not what I – I’m new to Liverpool myself.’

James, it transpires, is a travel writer. He’s written memoirs of his time seconded with the Foreign Office in Syria. Francis has read excerpts detailing a journey of a thousand miles on foot carrying diplomatic correspondence to the British Embassy in Istanbul. That must be where he knows that sensitive equine face. The papers were breathless about this modern-day Lawrence of Arabia, and Francis – who had before been quite interested – refused to even look at the book on principle.

James – Francis’s James, James Ross – likes the book, Francis remembers, and does not bother to hide his scowl.

‘Why leave, then?’ says Francis, when James has come to the end of his story.

A shadow passes over James’s face, quickly smoothing over. ‘Oh, you know,’ he says, leaning back, ‘deserts, uprisings, embassy parties. It all becomes much of a muchness.’

‘Does it,’ says Francis.

James shrugs, an elegant movement of one shoulder. ‘And besides,’ he says, ‘Liverpool’s provided me with _plenty_ of excitement so far.’

‘Beatles fan, are you,’ says Francis.

‘Not especially,’ says James. His lips are tightening and his eyes are beginning to snap. ‘I _meant_ yesterday.’

‘What happened yesterday?’ says Francis.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Francis,’ says James, tossing the lilies to the foot of Francis’s bed and storming out.

Francis waits until he’s sure James is out of earshot before giving in to the laughter that’s been threatening to consume him.

* * *

James makes an appearance the next day, holding flowers – yellow this time. ‘Acacia,’ he says, and looks for a moment at Francis, who shrugs.

James launches into a story of the florist, and how she reminds him of a seabird farmer in Namibia when he was seconded to the FCO there so that he could sort out a dispute between the Navy and the chemicals companies looking to make fertiliser from the guano. Francis listens in silence, and does not tell James that he was in the Navy and can form an excellent idea of how glamorous a mountain of seabird droppings must be.

‘Are you,’ he says, when James pauses to draw breath, ‘going to stay here until I break down in tears of gratitude?’

A flush rises in James’s cheeks. ‘An _acknowledgement_ would be nice.’

‘For what?’ says Francis. ‘You’ve got a story now. I can tell your biographer you pulled me out of the water and everything. I’ll even tell him the birdshit island story if you want.’

James tosses his head – the petulant, lovely movement of a much-indulged child – and rises.

* * *

Francis is in good spirits the next morning when Blanky comes to visit. He’s doing well, the doctors don’t think he’s taken any lasting damage from his adventure, but they’ll keep him for a couple of days under observation. He wonders which story James is going to choose this time.

James doesn’t show up. The nurse hands Francis a bouquet of yellow flowers – chrysanthemums, she tells him – but there’s no card.

Right. Well. That’s … fine, obviously. Spares Francis more fucking … Old Etonian puffery about James’s extended gap year pretending the UK’s still an empire.

Fine.

Obviously.

* * *

Francis is a little distracted the next morning. Blanky cocks him an altogether-too-knowing look when he comes in, and doesn’t even bother to pretend he isn’t cackling at the chrysanthemums, shedding a golden and accusing light at his bedside.

‘Jimbo been by, Francis?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Francis, and doesn’t look at him. ‘How’s Essie?’

Blanky clicks his tongue. ‘He’ll come round,’ he says, because Blanky can read a room perfectly well, ‘if you’ve not chased him away before now, happen he’s a sight harder to scare off than even you can manage.’

And then – because Blanky can read a room perfectly well – he relents and talks about his wife and children and Francis listens – aggressively listens, without cocking an ear to the doorway for the sound of an already familiar long stride.

He leaves, and Francis is looking anywhere but at the door or at the yellow sodding chrysanthemums, when the nurse walks in with a bouquet. Yellow flowers again.

‘They’re carnations, I think,’ she says, ‘Pretty, aren’t they?’

Francis says ‘The man who brought them. Where is he?’

‘Oh,’ says the nurse, ‘he just asked me to give you the flowers. He said he didn’t think you’d want to be disturbed.’

‘Fucker,’ says Francis, under his breath, though clearly not enough because the nurse shoots him a look, ‘sorry, it’s just – Jesus Christ, what a drama queen.’

The nurse keeps looking at him before saying, Vermouth-dry, ‘Do you want me to see if he’s still around, then?’

Francis looks back at her for not nearly long enough before his resolve crumbles.

After ten minutes or so, James is produced and marched to the chair next to Francis’s bed. The nurse leaves, but not before treating Francis to a conspiratorial grin and – horror of horrors – a wink.

James is sitting with his arms folded across his chest and his head turned away. Francis glares at him, miserably aware that the effect is somewhat undermined by the bouquet of yellow carnations he is still holding.

‘You wanted to see me,’ says James, addressing his remarks to the wall opposite Francis’s bed.

‘I _didn’t_ want to see you,’ says Francis, reflexively. James stiffens in his seat and Francis sighs. ‘Look, just – Jesus, the flowers. You bring me flowers, but you won’t visit yourself. What is that?’

‘It’s customary,’ says James, his voice dripping ice, ‘to bring flowers when visiting someone at the hospital.’

‘You’re supposed,’ says Francis, ‘to bring them _with you_. Not leave them and then scarper.’

James shrugs. ‘The flowers couldn’t offend you, as _I_ so clearly did.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘you give up easy, don’t you?’

James stiffens even more. ‘Give up?’

Francis pinches his nose. ‘My ex-girlfriend,’ he says, ‘I proposed to her twice. She turned me down. Twice.’

James is looking at him now, eyebrows climbing. ‘Is that what you’re holding out for?’

Francis glares at him. ‘You didn’t even try _once_ ,’ he says.

James stares at him before his tongue darts out to wet his lips. ‘How many times will you turn me down if I ask you to tea?’

Francis looks down at the flowers in his lap, fighting a smile. ‘Try and we’ll see.’

* * *

Francis does eventually respond to that wedding invitation, even if he’s still not sure what gift to bring.

He checks the ‘+1’ box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you can stop reading at this point, if you fancy!  
> The next chapter just contains a little more information. Tags/content warnings in the endnotes.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis does not, to this day, remember if he actually ever agreed to have tea with James, or indeed if James actually ever asked. By the time they were having tea, and by the time tea turned into dinner, and by the time dinner turned into an argument about Naval strategy in the Napoleonic Wars, and by the time the argument turned into a ferocious snog on James’s elegant but hideously uncomfortable sofa, and by the time the snog turned into a rick in Francis’s neck from cradling James against his chest on said hideously uncomfortable sofa, and by the time Francis’s complaints turned into low sounds when James massaged his neck, and by the time _that_ turned into sex on the hideously uncomfortable sofa, and by the time James came back with ointment to rub into the sprain that Francis didn’t want to explain to the doctor, and by the time they’d had lunch, and dinner, and Francis wasn’t sure whether they were on a second date, or a third, or if, 36 hours later, they were still on their first, and by the time James had decided it was easier for him to get Francis new underwear than to negotiate the process of Francis leaving and then coming back, and by the time Francis had narrowed his eyes at the suspiciously expensive-looking blue jumper James had thrown in with the (also suspiciously expensive-looking) underwear, and after James had turned up his nose at the entirety of Francis’s wardrobe, sight unseen, and after Francis had been bullied into wearing the jumper and James’s eyes had darkened at the sight of him in it and then matters had progressed and it was only sheer luck that they’d managed to avoid staining it beyond repair, and after they’d managed to escape, together, into the sunlight, and James’s hand was in Francis’s, and both of them were pink and grinning and not looking at each other … well, after all that, it didn’t seem to matter.

* * *

Two months in, and Blanky tells Francis that he has that look in his eye.

‘What look?’

‘The ‘I’m about to fuck things up by springing a wedding ring on the unsuspecting fucker I’m shagging’ look.’

Francis scoffs, but cannot quite meet Blanky’s eye. When he goes to James’s house, and a key is pressed into his hand by a James who launches into a lengthy and well-rehearsed business case for why it’s really best if Francis moves in, he cuts off the speech with a kiss.

Blanky laughs when Francis tells him the news. ‘Well, it had to happen someday.’

‘What did?’

‘You had to meet someone somehow worse than you are.’ There’s a frown in Blanky’s eyes. ‘Just – be careful, all right? Both of you. You barely know the man.’

Francis ducks his head, but says nothing. He knows that James has a foster brother in Hertfordshire. He knows his mum died soon after he was born and his father never wanted to know. James tells Francis all this with a mixture of defiance and shame that has Francis pulling him into his arms and pressing kiss after kiss to his dark hair. He knows James was in the Navy (“we could have served on the same vessel, Francis!”) before he was seconded through his foster father’s connections to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. He knows he’s glad he never knew James when he was wrung out and wretched and the only thing he could recognise from day to day was the bottom of a bottle. He knows James misses his time with the FCO, the travel and even the politics, but Francis’s grimness about British military operations abroad has an echo in him. He knows that James is resisting wearing the glasses he quite obviously needs. He knows that James will go to absurd lengths for a good story, and that his eyes turn green in certain lights. He knows that James dedicated the latest edition of his Namibian travel memoir to Francis, ‘especially the Birdshit Island story.’ He knows that it’s a heady thing, to know that you’re falling but that the person you’re falling _for_ is waiting to catch you when you land.

* * *

They’re watching the news one night after dinner. James is lying on the hideously uncomfortable sofa that has unfortunately begun to grow on Francis, his head in Francis’s lap. An image of a man flashes up on screen: small, light-haired, pointy-faced with secretive dark eyes. Soulful and shifty at the same time, like a rat in a stained-glass window. Familiar, somehow, in a way he can’t quite place.

‘… escaped from Broadmoor, Edgar Carter…’

James glances at the screen and stiffens – a momentary thing, but Francis’s head turns to look at him.

‘Everything OK, James?’

James is silent for a moment before saying, slowly ‘That face is familiar.’ He frowns. ‘The name is not.’

Francis raises an eyebrow. ‘What name did you know him by?’

James shakes his head slowly. ‘Can’t remember now.’

‘Where d’you think you know the man from?’

James is chewing the inside of his cheek, a crease between his brows. He says, again slowly: ‘The Navy. He was an AB, I think, when I was a middie? On the _Scott_.’

Francis looks at the screen himself. ‘The Navy?’ He rubs his forehead.

‘What is it?’ says James sharply.

Francis says ‘He might have been on ship with me too.’

James sits up. ‘Really?’ His eyes are intent on Francis. ‘What do you remember?’

Francis winces. ‘Not a lot from that time.’

‘Right,’ says James softly. ‘But you remember he served with you?’

Francis shakes his head. ‘Not really.’ He looks at James. ‘You think you know him, though?’

James nods slowly. ‘I do, yes.’

Francis brushes the hair off James’s forehead. ‘Did you know him well?’

James shakes his head. ‘Barely remember the man. Shock to see him this way.’

‘I can imagine,’ says Francis. ‘Want to talk about it?’

James shrugs. ‘I don’t really know what to say. I’m lucky, I suppose.’ He leans his cheek against his palm and looks at Francis.

‘There’s a fair bit of daylight between you and this Carter,’ says Francis, amused. ‘But if you want to make this about you, don’t let me stop you.’

James tosses his head and flumps back down a little violently onto Francis’s lap.

* * *

Some nights later, they’ve finally turned in for the night after James is done with a long call that keeps him downstairs in his study, when Francis hears a low scraping noise downstairs. He frowns and disentangles himself gently from James, curled up half-atop him in a slip.

‘Francis?’ says James sleepily.

‘Just checking something downstairs,’ says Francis, and drops a kiss to his shoulder. ‘Go back to sleep.’

He pads downstairs to look for the source of the sound. The kitchen is quiet in a threatening nighttime way. Francis flips on the switch and hears the sound of a throat being cleared. He spins and sees the man – Carter, Jesus, Carter from the telly – standing in front of him.

In person, he’s even smaller. Neat and precise with burning eyes.

‘Pleased to see you look so well, Captain,’ he says. A pleasant voice with a lilting Northern accent.

‘Captain?’ says Francis, trying to figure out the nearest thing to hand he can grab and chuck at the man.

‘You don’t remember me,’ says the man, and smiles ruefully, a long dimple appearing in his cheek. ‘I’d not expect you to. Not the likes of me.’

‘We served together?’ says Francis.

‘We did,’ says Carter. ‘We had a drink together. Quite an occasion, that was, for me.’

‘Was it,’ says Francis.

Carter’s eyes kindle. ‘We spoke. You spoke to me. The Navy, the whole Queen and Country of it – you saw it, you saw what it was and what it wasn’t, we spoke, I saw it too, you noticed - ’

‘I had many drinks,’ says Francis as gently as he can manage, ‘with or without many people.’

Carter freezes before he unwinds. ‘I’ll not hold you to it,’ he says, and his voice is gentle, sliding off an inhospitable surface. ‘You weren’t – I know you were …’ he wrinkles his nose delicately, ‘unwell, so much of that time.’

‘And that’s why you’re here,’ says Francis, his mind screaming at him, ‘to check on your old lush of a captain?’

Carter tilts his head and frowns. ‘You gave it up, didn’t you?’ He nods. ‘Much the best thing, if I may say, Captain. Wasn’t doing you any favours.’ He smiles, proprietorial and soft. ‘Knew you had it in you.’

‘Thanks,’ says Francis, edging towards the counter. If he can reach the knife –

Carter steps forward, blocking his exit. ‘I’m here to warn you, Captain.’

‘Warn me about what?’

‘Him,’ says Carter, nodding up. ‘Fitzjames.’

James. James, fuck, James sleeping upstairs, James who has no idea, and if this lunatic gets past Francis and up to James –

‘What about James?’ says Francis.

‘You’re together,’ says Carter, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘His book. He dedicated it to you.’

Francis says nothing, watching Carter’s eyes.

‘He’s not what you think he is,’ says Carter, stepping closer, ‘And don’t worry about him. He wanted me here. Oh, he’s a canny bastard, I’ll give him that, these soft posh Southern boys, but you need to know - ’

‘What does he need to know?’

James’s voice, out of the gloom. Carter starts, but keeps his eyes on Francis and produces a small but businesslike flick-knife. ‘I’m closer to the Captain than you are,’ he says, ‘I know you like to tell stories where you’re the hero, Mr Fitzjames, but I’d be careful if I was you.’

‘Francis,’ says James’s voice, ‘Francis, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ says Francis, eyes on Carter. ‘You were telling me about James, Mr Carter.’

James’s voice is closer now. ‘That’s not how I know him.’

‘- Hickey,’ says Francis, looking into the dark eyes turned up to him. ‘Cornelius Hickey. I remember from the muster rolls.’

Carter (Hickey)’s eyes widen, and his dimple is a deep joyous thing. ‘You do remember!’

‘It’s an unusual name,’ says Francis, and takes some pleasure in watching some of the light fade from the man’s eyes.

‘Ask him how he got that unusual name,’ says James. Hickey smiles again and leans forward.

‘He wasn’t using it,’ says Hickey, ‘Cornelius. Not when I was done with him.’

‘You killed him?’ says Francis, his stomach beginning to shift. ‘Why?’

Hickey looks a little offended at the question and shrugs, the ‘Why not?’ unspoken but loud. ‘We take our opportunities where we can get them, Captain. I’d expect you to know that.’

‘You could have just joined up,’ says Francis.

‘That’s why they put him in Broadmoor,’ says James. ‘I looked you up when you were on the news, Carter, or Hickey, or whatever you like to call yourself.’

‘I’ve been looking you up too,’ says Hickey pleasantly, ‘And you like to call yourself all sorts too, Mr Fitzjames. You like your stories, don’t you? There’s some beauties you’ve been telling.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hickey,’ says James. He’s trying to get closer, Francis can hear it, and he wants to warn him off.

‘Not the ones in the books,’ says Hickey, ‘whatever you’ve been telling the Captain here.’

‘What do you think he’s been telling me?’ says Francis. He sees a flash of white from James’s slip and then James grabs Hickey. Francis tries to get hold of Hickey’s arm, but he wriggles out of his grasp and slashes at James. One large hand reaches up to take Hickey’s wrist, and Hickey’s hand turns, knife moving towards James’s abdomen. Francis can barely yell a warning when there is a gasp – a plaintive, almost affronted sound – and Hickey slumps against James.

He slides down the length of him and sprawls onto the floor. James is staring down at him, a vivid streak of red neatly bisecting the gleaming white of his slip.

‘Oh,’ he says. Francis stands very still for what feels like a minute before starting forward and dropping to his knees and turning Hickey over.

He feels for his pulse and then looks up into James’s dark eyes. ‘He’s dead,’ he says.

James takes in a long breath. His fists are clenched so tight by his side Francis can see the vein stand out on each individual knuckle.

Then he says ‘Right. You have to go.’

Francis looks at him. James drops down to his knees and says ‘Francis. Did you hear me? You have to get out of here.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m going to call the police,’ says James. ‘There’ll be questions. You had nothing to do with it, you weren’t here, there’s no need for you to be involved. Francis, look, you have to – I know it’s a pain, you’ll have to find somewhere else to call a cab from, you won’t want to be near here, but you have to - ’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ says Francis. ‘It was self-defence, you’ll need a witness.’

James shakes his head impatiently. ‘They’ll not believe you – Francis, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m calling them now,’ says Francis. James looks at him helplessly and crumples.

* * *

The police are more startled by James’s slip than the actual dead fugitive on the kitchen floor, but keep civil tongues in their heads.

‘No sign of forced entry,’ says one of them.

‘He must have found a way to get hold of the key,’ says James. He shivers. ‘We’ll have to change the locks now.’

‘Not much sign of a struggle,’ says another. There’s no accusation in the tone, but Francis is glad he stayed. He explains what happened, relaying every word of their conversation to the best of his memory, and the constable dutifully takes it down.

They’re taken to the station, scraped, bagged, questioned and eventually released. There’s an inquest, and Francis is told there’s an investigation, but they don’t hear about it. They go to therapy and then they stop going.

They change the locks on the house.

They’re changing for bed one night when Francis says ‘Hickey said you wanted him here.’

James emerges from the bathroom. He’s wearing slips again to sleep in at night after some time tacitly avoiding them, and Francis can’t help the little smile when he sees the long legs emerging from the wisp of cotton barely coming down to mid-thigh. ‘Hmmmm?’

He crawls up the length of the bed and disposes himself on Francis’s thighs. Francis pulls him closer and says again ‘Hickey said you wanted him here. That night.’

James stiffens. ‘Hickey said a lot of things.’

‘He did,’ says Francis. ‘What do you think he could have meant by that one?’

James shrugs. ‘That sort of man always thinks he’s wanted. Open arms, a way to force open any door that’s ajar.’

‘He didn’t force open this one,’ says Francis, with a grin, ‘no forced entry, the cops said.’

He’s about to shrug his shoulders and call it a night when James says slowly ‘He wouldn’t have stopped.’

Francis says ‘Stopped?’

‘He’d found out about us,’ says James, ‘but he was going to anyway, it was only a matter of time. You didn’t see the way he looked at you back then.’

Francis stills beneath James. He says ‘And you did.’

James smiles at him. ‘You remembered him after all. But,’ and there’s the merest sliver of an edge in his voice, ‘You still don’t remember me, do you?’

Francis stares at him and says ‘You said we could have served on the same vessel.’

‘Could have,’ say James, ‘And did.’ He smiles, the creases by the side of his jaw deepening. ‘I wondered if it would come to you. No,’ he says, putting a soothing hand on Francis’s shoulder at a noise Francis doesn’t realise he made, ‘I don’t blame you for not remembering it. You weren’t yourself then. But Christ, I could see what you _could_ be. Like a beacon in the dark.’

Francis is watching him. He says, carefully ‘Did you bring him here? Hickey?’

He could almost sob in relief when James shakes his head, but James says ‘All I did was make a call and leave a door ajar. You heard the little weasel beat his chest about making the most of opportunities.’

Francis wills his eyes not to shut or his breathing to stop. James raises a hand to twine in Francis’s hair and says ‘I was right about you, though. When I sent over that whisky at the Philharmonic and you turned it down. Your favourite, too. Not a moment’s hesitation. I knew I’d been right about you.’

‘That was you,’ says Francis, and James nods.

‘Reid’s, too,’ he says, ‘I thought you might see me then, but you just … let that book go. Without a fight.’ He bumps his forehead gently against an immobile Francis and says ‘I’m glad, though. What we have now – I wouldn’t trade it for anything.’

Francis says, having to reach for each word with a voice that is refusing to obey him: ‘James. Who pushed me into the river?’

James smiles, a brilliant smile with liquid eyes, and cups Francis’s jaw with a gentle but unbreakable grip. ‘We deserved a proper meet-cute, my darling.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains minor character death and offscreen violence, as well as a brief appearance by Cornelius Hickey, who is basically his own content warning.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery) if you'd like to come yell with me there.
> 
> My thanks to the resplendent icicaille for encouragement and pointing out places where I leapfrogged from A to G with nary an explanation.
> 
> A handy-dandy rebloggable link (complete with moodboard!) can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/post/637150166894411776/meet-cute-chapter-1-anactoriatalksback-the) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery/status/1337141789757681668?s=20) if you are so inclined.


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